


The Morningstar

by nagapdragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Insanity, Lucifer as Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagapdragon/pseuds/nagapdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They wade through a sea of blood, a collage of scorched wings on the ground and broken, pitiful humans. The ground freezes where they walk, the pure ice of their Grace and not the tainted, congealed ice of blood and bone and decay, and they walk their broken world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morningstar

Clean.

They wade through a sea of blood, a collage of scorched wings on the ground and broken, pitiful humans. The ground freezes where they walk, the pure ice of their Grace and not the tainted, congealed ice of blood and bone and decay, and they walk their broken world.

And they are clean.

The Morningstar shines bright once again.

_The blood, the blood—_ the piece of them that used to be Sam Winchester whimpers. _It won’t come out, won’t come out, Dean will know, won’t come out!_

They walk through the shattered ruins of old Detroit. 

Grand Circus Park, overgrown with roses, the windows in the church and the opera house shattered but the skeletons of their architecture intact. They walk through the shell of the church, ice crunching over multicolored shards of broken glass, standing with silver and white wings outstretched in front of the altar where they prayed for the last time, the altar where Father didn’t answer.

Comerica Park and Ford Field, across the street from each other, the stands rising above permafrosted grass full of corpses mummified by the elements, their blood dripping in frozen rivers down the aisles. The metal is twisted and shorn on the side closest to where they came together, wrecked by the true return of the Morningstar.

No more Lucifer, no more Sam. They are the Morningstar, and they are one.

The casinos were shattered, pushed off their foundations or razed completely to the ground, destroyed with all the humans and demons inside them while the reapers watched and the debris flew right through them. 

They stand by the river, watching the flow of water beneath the surface ice. So pure, the ice. So clean. 

They dress in spotless white, but the blood, the _blood, the blood!_

They curl inside the Joe Louis, ice to ice, enlarging the stalactites that drip from the rafters and fall to shatter around them, pinning through white wings and white suit and staining everything, everything red. The frozen banners sway on chains of frigid steel, remnants of an era but an angel’s heartbeat away and gone, all gone now. 

_No!_

The blood vanishes and they wring their hands, leaving long gouges that heal over, leaving nothing but the red under their nails before that vanishes too.

They walk the streets of Lawrence, all that is left of the city where this body was born. The rutted asphalt with its worn stripes, the stop lines and turning lanes as pristine as that day when archangels fought. One foot, the other, all on the double yellow. They stand in the center of the intersection that used to be Massachusetts and 9th Streets, looking at asphalt broken by brick crosswalks on one side and bold white stripes on the other, and illusory traffic roars around them. There used to be stores here, a department store, a bank.

Stull Cemetery, the chain-link fence lying twisted and scorched, once shining silver gone to rust. The headstones, the arched blocks and the miniature obelisks, lie entirely in shattered stone, the marble covered in ice and still hot to the touch. They walk over icy bridges spanning gaps that rip all the way to coffins, to splintered wood and gnarled hands and snatches of dirty cloth. They walk to a tomb of shimmering ice, to the body of a beloved brother _a brother never known_. 

They do not walk on the charred outline of wings, the place where grass does not grow and their ice does not spread. 

The Garden in Heaven, the heart of Paradise, littered with the skeletons still in their black-and-white suits, a sharp contrast against the verdant green, and everywhere the overlapping scorch marks of spread wings. The last battalion, Heaven’s last protectors, resting in the only place they cannot freeze, and at their center another icy tomb, preserving the form of the stern man through whom they drove their blade.

Muncie, Indiana. A destroyed hotel, stained with the blood of those who dared call themselves a god, the last broken shards of glamor splashed with their blood. They are broken dolls, preserved by the scant belief of the survivors they permit, but motionless. Empty. A ballroom-turned-conference room, the place where they stood and turned his own blade back upon him. They put a tomb here, too, the charred wings climbing the walls, and they look through the ice at a distorted image of a broken little boy who never learned when to stop playing. 

It is quiet in their head. 

No more angels begging for their lives, for Heaven, for salvation. For victory.

No more noise. 

No more. 

Just them.

They walk the last perfect handiwork of God and they walk their own handiwork, the pure, pure cities and the lovely red. Red blood, red flowers, red that doesn’t wash off, not ever. 

_The blood,_ _it won’t go away, won’t wash out, never never never clean_.

They walk the rose garden, pristine and clean, and run open palms along the long thorns. 

_Red and red, pure and dead, the roses live and thrive._

_Silence sings, and Satan’s King, and now they all have died._

There’s another ice tomb, here, one without wings that was supposed to have them.

The Morningstar weeps.

The Morningstar laughs.

The Morningstar shines.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm always available at my Tumblr- I'm nagapdragon there, too.


End file.
